


When the Last Star Falls

by Little_Ghost14



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:01:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Ghost14/pseuds/Little_Ghost14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She died never knowing that he loved her.  He lived on, never know that she loved him back.  Their paths in life forked, parting them forever.  One went to war; the other went beyond the call of duty to save a life.</p><p>A two part story about the Battle of Trident and Sack of King's Landing told from the viewpoint of Ser Barristan Selmy and Ashara Dayne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**When the Last Star Falls. Part One.**

" **As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods;**

**They kill us for their sport."**

**(Shakespeare. King Lear)**

Chaos reigned as the battle built in pitch. Generals desperately tried to get their troops in order, but their bellowed commands were lost among the deafening noise of a war machine in full swing. Within minutes of the mounted knights charging their horses into the Trident, their corpses were banking up the fork and the waters gushed red with their blood. The air was filled with the sound of death blows meeting their target; the sickening crunch of swords, maces and warhammers crushing armour and skulls. Cries of the wounded were drowned out as the dying men were dragged down beneath the current, reducing their last words to a formless gurgle lost among the churning waters. All the while, volley after volley of arrows rained down on them from all sides. Death came from all quarters; the ravenous Stranger gorging his fill on the flower of Westerosi chivalry.

It was fighting on a scale Ser Barristan had not seen since the War of the Ninepenny Kings and even that had ended with him defeating Maelys the Monstrous in single combat. This was something different. This was a frenzy of killing through which he ploughed his Destrier, swinging his sword almost blindly as he made for the rebel forces. As soon as his horse plunged into the river, water had flooded his armour and rendered it more cumbersome than ever. If he fell, he would drown within moments.

Experienced enough to block such thoughts from his mind, he raised his sword and surged forwards. His horse reared dangerously as they entered the press of the fighting, where the battle was at its thickest. Still he cut a path through the rebel forces, parrying blows aimed at him and destroying the enemy by the cutting the legs from under the horses, sending them crashing into the treacherous waters. Without the luxury of time to think, he could only struggle to return to Prince Rhaegar's side, but he had not seen the Prince for almost a half hour now.

It was as he broke through Baratheon's left flank that he noticed the niggling sting in his thigh. Every time the cold waters splashed against it, it stung all over again. Irritably, he pounded at it with one gauntleted hand, only for it to hit the shaft of a quarrel protruding from between the chinks in his armour. The sight of it made him curse aloud, a momentary distraction in which a hammer smashed into the back plate of his armour, denting it inwards so that he could no longer breathe properly. The blow sent him reeling sideways in the saddle, almost unseating him and sending him to his death. But he grabbed the reins, dropping his sword in the process and managed to regain his balance.

He rounded the fork, defenceless and vulnerable without his sword. Only his shield now protected him from the arrows raining down and the swords slashing through the air. But as he rounded the bend in the river, dodging through the parrying fighters, he saw a sight that offered a glimmer of hope. Rhaegar was still mounted, his black enamelled armour glittering with rubies in the form of the three headed dragon. His sword was raised, ready for the kill as the towering youth in an antlered helm came charging through the tidal waters.

Hope died in him, he had to look away as the rebel leader brought the hammer crashing down so hard it knocked the gems of Rhaegar's armour. For one drawn out moment, it seemed as if time had stood still while Rhaegar fell backwards, sliding almost serenely into the waters with blood gushing from the chinks in his fluted armour.

"Lyanna," he had whispered as he fell. So close Ser Barristan thought he might be able to catch him. From years of bitter experience he knew the Prince was dead before he even hit the water.

Defeated and leaderless, all the royal army could do was scatter. But Ser Barristan's injury was building to an agonising burning and his dented breastplate was crushing his ribs. All he could do was dig his spurs into the beast's flanks to get himself back on dry land. He knew it was all over as a roar of victory from the rebel forces filled the air, stilling the remaining fighters. The Direwolves of House Stark and the Stags of House Baratheon united in triumph.

Ser Barristan could have laughed, had he not been losing consciousness. They're looking for Lyanna. Do they really think she was abducted? He wanted to look into Eddard Stark's eyes as he told him where his sainted sister was and how she came to be there. Only he realised, too late, that he wouldn't get the chance. He didn't even know he was falling until he hit the ground. His body connected with the churned up mud, bashing his breastplate in even more and painfully jolting the quarrel that was still embedded in his thigh. Now out of the water, his blood spilled hotly inside the plate metal that was slowly crushing him. To compound matters, he was dimly away of his horse wandering off and leaving him all alone.

'Play dead,' he thought to himself as he crawled among a cluster of corpses, searching for somewhere to lay down. He wouldn't have to play for long, he inwardly added. He had neither strength nor distance left to run. All he could do was lie there and wait for it all to be over. His visor was still down, shielding his face from the early summer sun. To give himself even a fighting chance at survival, he had to get the quarrel out of his thigh. But if so much as touched it, it sent shockwaves of pain coursing through his failing body.

Shaking off a gauntlet, he wrapped his freed hand around the broken shaft. To distract himself from the pain, he mapped the local area in his head. He could flee north and seek sanctuary at the Isle of Faces. Or Harrenhal. While planning his notional escape, he wrenched the quarrel free, biting his lip so hard it drew more blood. Anything to prevent himself screaming out in agony. But once it was done, it was done and the pain would recede.

Ashara. As he lay there among the dead, her face swam before his eyes. While the pain slowly washed away, he conjured her in his mind's eye and held on to those images as though there were a life raft bearing him to safety.

It wasn't so far from the Trident that the tourney of Harrenhal took place; where Ashara gave him her silk favour before he faced Rhaegar in the lists. Rhaegar won, but he still had the favours tied around his wrist. He could feel them now, digging into his skin. It was there that he decided he was going to forsake his vows to the Kingsguard to be with her. Idly, his mind wandered into a 'what if' scenario. What if he had? Where would they be, instead of where they really were? They could have been welcoming their first born and basking in the Dornish sun. Instead, he did his duty and now lay dying and alone on the muddy banks of the Trident. That's where duty gets you. But at least he could say he did the right thing.

Memories formed a mocking masquerade, parading through his head as he thought back over the year of false spring. It was all very well dreaming of what life could have held, but he had never even told Ashara how he felt. How many times had he been on the brink? How many times had he rehearsed the speech, planned the moment, or prepared a special place under the moonlight where he would bare his soul? He had lost count and now his chance was gone.

Once, when the Princess was born and Elia hovered between life and death, Rhaegar had given him a bouquet of flowers to deliver to her. Wildflowers and roses picked from the gardens at Dragonstone. He walked through the gardens and picked one more: a pink rose in full bloom, before heading to the Queen's apartments. Ashara had answered and he remembered every detail still. He recalled the gown she wore. A blue so pale it was almost grey. Her dark hair braided, falling over her right shoulder and the loose strands that framed her beautiful face. And always those haunting lilac eyes.

"These are for the Princess Elia," he said, thrusting the flowers into her hands. "But this is for you."

She cradled the bouquet in the crook of her right arm and took the single rose in the fingers of her left hand. A smile played slowly across her lips as she breathed in its scent with an understated relish. Her smile made his heart race.

"From who?" she asked, meeting his gaze again.

He responded with what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. "That would be telling," he had replied, teasingly.

Had she guessed that it was from him? It was the last thing left to bring him some small comfort as his grip on consciousness finally expired. Ser Barristan let himself slip into the warm darkness, still recalling those haunting lilac eyes.

* * *

Their defeat did not seem real to Ashara until the first wounded royal soldiers made it back to King's Landing. The first to arrive were the ones strong enough to make the southward journey in just a few short days. The young and the healthy, unhurt by the fighting. Some dark part of her wondered whether they were deserters. It was her practical side that informed her now was not the time for principles.

After them came the first of the walking wounded. Men with blood soiled bandages wrapped around various limbs, or round their heads. Some had lost eyes; others limbs. A few still had quarrels from crossbows embedded in their bodies. The slowest stragglers were the ones with terrifying injuries she didn't think any man could survive. Many went on to prove her point by expiring on the castle steps, as though they had given up hope just as they reached their final sanctuary.

As each one passed through the gates, she rushed to the window to see if Ser Barristan was with them. She had grabbed one or two of the healthier ones, shaking them by the shoulders and demanding to know. Was he dead? Alive? Injured? None of them knew. Some were beyond speech, half-mad from the trauma of the endless fighting.

All the while, as she tarried at the capital, she knew the rebel forces would be closing in on them. They would come and sack the city any day now. All time was borrowed time and by the end of the first week following Rhaegar's death, she was once more at Elia's side. Aerys had refused to let her and the children flee to safety at Dragonstone, the place where Rhaegar had tried to send them long before the battle.

Listless and exhausted, the Princess lay in her bed with barely enough strength to cradle Aegon. Rhaenys, the little princess, shook and sobbed on her father's bed. Ashara's heart broke for her. For them all. She didn't think Elia had noticed her arrival, but slowly her dark eyes met Ashara's. There was no more grief there. No anger nor even despair. Although her body was weak and ravaged by the deprivations of conflict, her voice and her expression was the strongest Ashara had seen in her for years.

"You must go, Ashara," she said. "The Lannisters have betrayed us-"

"I'm not leaving you!" Ashara cut over her.

"You must," Elia insisted, trying to sit up in bed.

Outside, the bells had started to toll. People were running and shouting in blind panic. Ashara thought of the wildfire rigged up around Blackwater Bay – it would be enough to stop invading ships. But if the Lannisters had turned, then they were already inside the castle to open the gates to land troops.

"The baby," said Elia, pushing down the infant's swaddling blankets.

Ashara barely glanced at him before falling on her knees at Elia's bedside. "Come with me. This place is in chaos and Aerys couldn't stop you even if he wanted. So come, run with me now and we might just make it. Doran and Oberyn will protect you!"

Elia raised a sad smile. "Even if I made it, they would never stop hunting us. Now look at my baby."

Ashara wanted to scream in frustration, but humoured the princess and glanced down at Aegon.

"He's very bonny, your grace," she said, then looked again. "That's not Aegon."

Elia's smile widened and she nodded weakly to a bundle of rags in the corner of the room from which a kicking baby's leg was now visible. But when she looked back at Ashara, there was only a longing in her dark eyes.

"If I stay, they will kill us all never knowing that you took my son to safety," she explained. "They won't even think to look for him; no one will know. When the time is right, he can rise again. If you do this for me, then the Targaryens will not have been defeated. But if I go with you, it will be obvious. Please, Ashara, promise me. Promise me you will do this?"

Frustration gave way to heartbreak, tears slipping down Ashara's face as she clasped Elia's free hand in her own. There was no time to argue and this way was the only way.

"I promise," she choked, glancing briefly at Rhaenys. "But what about-"

"It's too late. They all know her," Elia said, second guessing where she was going.

A hue and a cry was raised outside, the sound of doors being kicked in farther down the corridor. Both women whipped around towards the source of the commotion just as a female screamed, a chilling sound cut off mid flow as though her throat had been cut. Now it was happening. Ashara's heartbeat raced, her mouth running dry with fear. Suddenly, she could not say anything as straight as a stick.

"Go now!" Elia implored. "Just go!"

Before leaving, Ashara flung her arms around Elia's neck, pressing a firm kiss against her cheek.

"Through this act you've won this war," she said, firmly. "No matter what happens, you've won already."

There was no time left for a reply. Ashara got to her feet and hitched the hems of her skirts up as she grabbed the real Aegon from his bundle of rags. She burst through the connecting door to the ladies chambers to snatch what possessions she could in just a few short seconds. A bag that was already packed and a book from her bedside table. But that was all.

"This way!"

She spun round at the sound of the voice. A man in a gaoler's uniform was standing by a secret tunnel she never knew existed. His hood was drawn low over his face and even as he reached for her bag she could not see his face. All she could do was follow him through the secret tunnels, letting him lead the way with a lantern. This way and that, they turned. She couldn't keep up with where they were going. All the while, she clutched Aegon to her chest and sent up silent prayers of thanks that the babe was silent.

"Who are you?" she asked.

It wasn't until they emerged inside a brothel that the man revealed himself. He lowered his hood back, revealing himself to be the Master of Whispers.

"Varys!" she gasped, tightening her grip on Aegon.

"Sh!" he said, pressing a finger to his lips. "The Lannisters scaled Maegor's Holdfast just as we escaped, my lady. Your Princess, her daughter and that unfortunate infant are probably already dead. I must return and make terms with the usurper, whatever happens. But know I am loyal to the Targaryens. Always."

Ashara's head was in a whirl, too much so to be taking pledges of fealty. "That's very moving, but what now?" She had to think and it was hard in a brothel. Half-naked women were passing from room to room, readying themselves for the big business that was heading their way. They will earn a fortune from the soldiers. She had to answer her own question. "I'm taking him to Starfall for now. But he can't stay there forever."

"I will come for him," replied Varys. "I will sort something out, I assure you. But please, follow me to the ship now."

It was easier than she thought. Amidst the chaos of the invading army, they were able to slip onto a merchant vessel under the guise of a woman being evacuated with her infant daughter. Varys made sure the Bravosi captain was well paid and even helped settle her in the cabin. If she looked from the portal window, she could see smoke rising from the Red Keep already. The sight almost brought her to tears again.

"Varys," she said, catching him before he could leave. "Have you heard any news of Ser Barristan Selmy?"

If anyone knew, Varys would. But he only shook his head, the apologetic look on his face telling her all she needed to know. "I'm sorry, my lady. Ser Barristan was fighting alongside the Prince; that's all I know. I know Selmy well enough to conclude he would have died at the Prince's side rather than bend the knee to a usurper."

Once they set sail, Ashara left the sleeping prince in their cabin and stood on the decks of the ship. The thin trail of smoke that had been leaking from the Red Keep now billowed over the whole city, clouding and rolling over the restless bay. They would all be dead now. Elia; Rhaenys; the unknown infant who unwittingly saved a dynasty. All the injured soldiers would be dead too.

She remembered the book she rescued from her chamber. It was in the bag over her shoulder now, and when she retrieved it she opened it in the middle. A pale pink rose had been pressed in the centre pages. It was flat and darker now, but she closed her eyes and remembered the Knight who gave it to her. He had a whole bouquet, sent by Rhaegar to Elia after the birth of the little Princess.

"But this one is for you," he had said, holding out the single pink rose.

Its scent was long gone, but Ashara held it to her nose and breathed it in again anyway. Her memory supplied the rest. She smiled as the ship sailed out into Blackwater Bay, taking her far away.

"From who?" she had asked, hoping it was him. Hoping he would say something.

Instead, he had flashed her that enigmatic smile. "That would be telling," he said, laughter in his voice.

But Ser Barristan was Kingsguard. She knew that. Honour was what defined them. Honour and duty forged their path in life. And their paths broke off, always in different directions. A single tear tracked down her cheek, glistening in the setting sun, as she opened her eyes again. Kings Landing was aflame. Their world reduced to embers and ash. What would come in its place? It chilled her to imagine it.

She walked to the prow of the ship, kissed the rose and let it slip into the seas. She watched as it whispered silently beneath the waves.

**TBC**

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Reviews/Feedback would be very welcome, if you have a moment.**


	2. Part Two

**When the Stars Fall (Part Two)**

Voices sounded in the far distance, barely penetrating the silence that surrounded him. Reaching him only in waves, Ser Barristan couldn't discern what they were saying. When he tried to open his eyes, all he could make out were the cold stone walls badly illuminated by a distant brazier. All he could feel was the cold and the pain from his injuries. The last thing he remembered was pulling the quarrel from his thigh, but now he questioned whether there weren't more that he hadn't noticed at the time, such was the pain he was in. Even breathing was hard and every rib ached in protest whenever he inhaled.

Testing the limits of his consciousness, he tried moving a hand. It brushed against damp rushes and rough, cold stone. He had been dumped on the floor like a sack of turnips. Giving up on moving, he lay back and let his eyes close, focusing his attention on the voices instead.

"I think he's waking up. Inform King Robert"

The voice belonged to a Northerner, but Ser Barristan could not readily identify him. Older than Eddard Stark, he ruled out the new Lord of Winterfell. Roose Bolton? It seemed likely. Hearing Robert titled 'King' made his stomach churn.

"Aye, my lord," a younger man replied.

The older man sighed mightily. "I've already counselled the King to slit his throat and be done with it. But Robert is prevaricating."

"B-but, my lord, that's Barristan Selmy!"

Ser Barristan tried to stir. But his limbs now felt as though they were made of lead. All he succeeded in doing was shoving aside some rushes and grazing his elbow on the stone floor. Another cut to throw in with the rest of his injuries. It wasn't fear of death that moved him; just a desperate urge to move, to do something other than lie there helplessly. When he settled again, he did so in time to catch the Lord's clipped reply to the gaoler.

"Selmy was a great man, once. Now, he is a traitor to the Crown. I dare say the new King is sending for a headsman as we speak."

If he had had the strength, Ser Barristan would have laughed. He had served the crown with nothing but utmost loyalty for as long as he could remember. Once more, his years of bitter experience kicked in: he knew you only had to pick the wrong side once and everything you ever did counted for nothing. He had served the King loyally, but Aerys turned out to be the wrong King.

Hurried footsteps crossed the stone floor, echoing loudly as though they were in a dungeon. Only one of the men had left and he couldn't guess which. But the second wasn't far behind the first and finally he felt safe enough to open his eyes again. Flat on his back, he was staring up at a stone, vaulted roof. The black bat of Harrenhal was engraved on the flagstones lining the passageway outside his cell. He could see it clearly through the bars on his door. A thick chain was laced through the steel, securing him in place and ruling out any escape.

To the side, a stone bench was fixed to the wall. His captors hadn't even bothered to carry him to it, instead just dropping him on the floor. Not only had he been called a traitor, he was being treated like one too. It was that which made him feel sick to the stomach and brought the bile to the back of his throat.

Harrenhal, of all places. Now that he was alone, he managed to sit up and half-crawl, half-drag himself over to the back wall, farthest from the brazier's flame. As soon as he made it, he propped himself up against the wall despite the cold dampness of the stone surface. That small exertion alone left him breathless again. He turned his eyes to the vaulted ceiling.

He let himself see past the stones, allowing his mind's eye to climb up through the layers of brick and mortar. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was directly overhead. A place where, scarce two years before, the whole realm had danced together. Every infinitesimal detail of that dance awoke in his memory; the colours and the sounds. The music that filled the halls and the singer's voices. Rhaegar played the harp and reduced Lady Stark to tears. The thought of them now was like an iron fist squeezing his heart.

Then Ashara danced. He played it again in his head; every step and every pirouette. The way she turned her head and her dark hair slid over her narrow shoulder. He could only watch from the side lines as she swayed and twirled in the arms of Eddard Stark. That same triumphant rebel leader had been so shy, back then, that it was his older brother who had arranged the dance. Barristan could see Brandon still, leaning down and whispering in Ashara's ear. His lips so close they almost brushed against her skin as he spoke. Later, he was unable to do anything but watch as she walked away with him-

"Ser Barristan!"

Jolted out of his reverie, he glared through the bars of his cell door. Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, appeared with lantern in hand. He had been right, earlier on. It gave Ser Barristan some small triumph to have guessed the identity of the man pushing for his death.

"King Robert has granted you an audience. You're to come with me."

Barristan didn't realise he had even requested an audience, but he decided against quibbling the matter. He raised his head, meeting the Lord's gaze and noting his pale eyes and sunken face. Bolton's was a visage that haunted the nightmares of maidens. He did not move as the door was unchained with a grating whine of the lock. So two burly gaolers appeared from the darkness and lifted him under the arms.

They began to carry him, not caring that his feet hit the flagstones, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through his body. Then it was a matter of pride alone that got him back on his own two feet.

"I can stand!" he stated, waspishly. "And I know where I'm going."

The men who half-dragged him stopped, but didn't let go. They were looking at Bolton, who assented with a nod of the head.

"Thank you, my lord," said Ser Barristan.

Standing of his own volition hurt like all seven hells, but he would sooner die than be carried and thrown at the usurper's feet as though he were a sacrificial offering. Walking was even more difficult, with every step causing his injured limbs to scream with pain. But he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, enduring every step. Out of the dungeons, they emerged into the clean, fresh air. After being locked in almost total darkness for so long, the sunlight dazzled him, making him wince. If he flagged, the man walking behind shoved him painfully in the small of his back causing him to stumble forwards. But he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall. Every time a shove came, he ambled forwards and righted himself abruptly.

If he looked to the left, he could see where the jousts were held. The tracks were still there, where the horses charged down the lanes. If he closed his eyes, he could conjure the crowds and the noise of the lances smashing to splinters. Ashara had bestowed her favours on him before he entered and, had he won, he would have crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty. It was then, in that moment, that he would have announced his decision to forsake his vows. But in the event, Rhaegar won and the crown went to another, altogether different, girl.

A wry smile spread across his face as the crossed the site of the seven sided tourney. If he had won that day, the war would probably have been avoided. Now, it seemed, he would not see that place again until the headsman came for him. The stands where the spectators roared his name would soon be the scaffold on which his head was taken. A fresh scalp for King Robert's collection.

After what seemed an age, they reached a grand hall that smelled as though it had been sealed for a century. Cobwebs hung from the roof beams and dust plumed in the air, catching the sunlight, as the doors swung open to admit them. The new King, Robert Baratheon, was seated on a dais at the far end of the room. Lord Jon Arryn was standing at his side, looking on anxiously.

"Bend your knee," Roose Bolton quietly commanded him.

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, gulping down a swell of bile as he lowered himself painfully to the ground. He fought to keep his expression benign and betraying no trace of pain as he knelt. But before his knee could even hit the stone floor, Robert was on his feet and striding down the hallway.

"Enough of that!" he roared. "Damn you, Bolton, help him back to his feet."

Now Ser Barristan took pleasure in watching Roose Bolton have no choice but to obey a command. The Leech Lord guided him up again with an expression of utmost sourness on his gaunt features. When he was upright, he took a good look at Robert Baratheon. Tall, handsome and slender. But powerfully strong for his slenderness and with a twinkle in his clear, blue eyes. He was the sort of man women went weak at the knees for.

"Leave us!" the King commanded, still looking him dead in the eye.

Even Jon Arryn shuffled out of the Hall, leaving them quite alone together. Then Robert put an arm around his shoulders and guided him to the same seat on the dais that he had just vacated. A gesture that took Ser Barristan completely by surprise. Even more so when Robert himself poured them both a drink himself. Clearly, he had a lot to learn about being King and running a royal household.

"Summer Wine," said Robert. "I bet you haven't had that for a while, eh?"

He was right, but Ser Barristan was still erring on the side of caution and made no vocal reply. Meanwhile, Robert was scrutinising him closely.

"I'll have my Maesters tend those wounds. They'll bring Milk of the Poppy, too," he said.

Ser Barristan heaved a dry, painful laugh that turned into a wracking cough. "So I can be in finest fettle when they take my head?"

"Who said anything about taking your head?" Robert demanded, glaring down at him from over his goblet of wine. "The Others take Roose Bolton and his useless counsel."

Ser Barristan drew a sharp breath, looking back at Robert and wondering whether he had heard that right.

"Your Grace, I thought for the Targaryens and I would do so again-"

"I expect no less of the Kingsguard!" Robert cut over him, sitting himself down at the edge of the dais. "Look here, I'm not a monster. I'm not Aerys. You took a vow to serve the King and he was the King, not me. You did your duty and I understand that. But now you have to understand that things are different and I am King."

Robert was being reasonable where many others in the same place would have struck him down where he sat. Ser Barristan no longer saw reason to be objectionable.

"I understand," he said. "You are King and whatever show of fealty you require-"

"None," Robert cut over him again. Clearly, he was not yet a man of great patience. He rose to his feet again, restlessly. As he closed the gap between them, he lowered himself to they were face to face. "There's only one thing I require of you right now, and that's the whereabouts of my fiancée: Lyanna Stark. My future Queen. Where did Rhaegar take her?"

The twinkle in the King's eye had hardened into a desperate hunger. It chilled Ser Barristan to think that the young man before him really had torn this realm to pieces for her. It went beyond love and into obsession. Lyanna was like a prize to him; a piece of meat to be won. Not like Ashara and him. To him, Ashara was someone he had to earn. He had to be worthy of her. But, with Rhaegar dead, he realised he had to tell all or Lyanna would be forever hiding in that tower.

"I can tell you, Your Grace," he said. "But there's something I need in return."

"Tell it and it will be so," Robert replied without so much as a pause for thought.

Ser Barristan, however, did pause while he gathered his wits.

"Your Grace, I need you to release me from my vows to the Kingsguard," he said, tremulously. "I will serve you as my King in whatever capacity you require of me, but not as Kingsguard. Secondly, I need your men to find Lady Ashara Dayne and keep her safe and unhurt until such time that I can come for her."

"So be it," Robert agreed, again without hesitation. "I will regret not having you on my Kingsguard until the day I die, Ser Barristan. But if this is for the love of Lady Ashara, I won't stand in your way. Just remember my love for Lyanna and tell me what I need to know."

Ser Barristan drew a deep breath. "The Tower of Joy, in the Red Mountains of Dorne," he began, before giving exact coordinates. "She is guarded by Oswell Whent, Ser Arthur Dayne and two others. You may need a host of men to ride south and rescue her. It could be that the men there remain loyal to Rhaegar and Aerys."

It struck him as odd that they were in Oswell Whent's family castle. The rest of the family had clearly bent the knee, but there was no telling what he might do. But the matter was now out of his hands. He had been released from his vows, he had done his duty and now he was free. For the first time in his life, he could follow his heart in the one thing it wanted most. Even if Ashara spurned him, he had the chance to try for her hand. That was all he wanted. He thought he had earned that much.

Meanwhile, Robert was relaying the whereabouts to Jon Arryn. Lord Stark, it seemed, was already well on the road south and now outriders would have to catch up with him and tell him where Lyanna actually is. When the new King returned, Ser Barristan was able to look him in the eye.

"You've treated me with honour, Your Grace," he said, perfectly happy to admit it. It seemed that Robert didn't even know he was locked in a cage until recently. "My health permitting, I will remain in your Kingsguard until such time that Ashara is found and you have a suitable replacement for me. Is that fair?"

The young King beamed as brightly as a boy who had won approval from a favourite teacher. "More than fair," he said, extending a hand. "It would be an honour."

Willingly, Ser Barristan shook it. With that done, Maesters were sent for and a much more comfortable place of convalescence found. He was put in a feather bed, where his wounds were tended and dressed. Before long, Milk of the Poppy was slipping into his bloodstream, lulling him into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

It was Ashara's mother who told her the details. Of how Gregor Clegane scaled Maegor's Holdfast to gain entry to the Red Keep; of how he battered down Elia's chamber door and raped her violently before slaughtering her. Of how Rhaenys watched, cradling her little brother and screaming for her father before, they too, were put to the sword. She recounted how Jaime Lannister put a sword through Aerys' back, leaving his corpse bleeding and broken at the foot of the Iron Throne.

Elia must have been where she left her: lying in that bed and fading away from grief. After hearing the final details, she walked from her mother's solar at Starfall and went outside to breathe in the fresh air. And to be violently sick in the bushes. Only when she had heaved up everything she'd eaten that week, did she return indoors to where the real Aegon had been hidden in her old bed chamber. When she reached him, she held him close to her breast and wept. Fat, salty tears dripping onto his head, mixing with his fuzzy silver hair. All the while, she thought of that nameless infant who had died in his place. Probably the son of some prostitute. Unwanted; unimportant.

 _I would have wanted him_ , she thought to herself. She had wanted her own daughter, despite the shame she brought on her House. Yet when she died, moments after she was born, her own mother told her she ought to be grateful. The death of her child had been spoken of as though some great stigma had been washed away, but Ashara had been left feeling dead inside. Now, even her daughter's father was dead; killed in front of the whole Court while the people looked on in stunned silence. He had dishonoured her. She only succumbed to him in a moment of folly and weakness, because the man she truly loved could never be with her.

"Who is he really?" her mother asked, standing in the doorway of her room.

Ashara looked over the infant's head, to where she was. "Aegon," she replied, simply. "The real Aegon. Elia begged me to take him and I promised I would."

She didn't know how her mother would react. Whether angry for bringing such danger into their halls, or otherwise. Luckily for them both, it was otherwise.

"Seven blessings on him," her mother sighed, sinking back against the wall. Her eyes filled with tears as she entered the room properly. "Will you pass him off as your own? No one saw…" She trailed off, not wanting to dredge up painful memories.

"No one saw my daughter," Ashara filled in the blanks for her. "But no. Some powerful friends will come for him and he will be raised far from here. Until the time is right. I can't go with him otherwise people will know. But I would that I could."

She looked down at Aegon again. He was sleeping, his fist curled tight around a lock of her hair. If only she could read the future and see what lay in store for him. And for his aunt and uncle, fled across the Narrow Sea to Bravos. While she cogitated, her mother kissed her cheek. There was something about the gesture that seemed almost apologetic.

"Mama," she said, meeting her gaze.

But her mother pressed a finger to her lip, quietening her. "I leave for Sunspear in the morning. I must pay my respects to the Martells. But our day will come again, thanks to you." She smiled and a pained smile. "Now let no man speak ill of you again."

It was Elia, really. Elia sacrificed her life so her son could live freely, without being hunted. Viserys and the newest Princess would spend their lives dodging assassins round every corner. But little Aegon will thrive and be loved, secretly growing, secretly promising the return of the dragons just when the usurper least expected it. That was all the revenge Ashara needed.

When morning came, her mother left and Varys arrived. Their conversation was brief. The details of the slaughter had shaken the Master of Whispers. He was pale and stammering, looking like he was about to vomit. But he spelled out the plan and her part in it was done. When Varys left with the baby, she was alone. Only the household staff remained, and they did not trouble her unless she needed them.

As the weeks went by, she took to walking the ramparts of Starfall. From up high, she could look out over the Red Mountains of Dorne. She could look down the length of the twisting Torrentine River and out into the wide Summer Sea. If she looked east, she could see the Stepstones on a clear day. The whole of southern Westeros spread out before, rolling and undulating into the distance, vanishing into mist.

She liked it when the northern winds brushed past her face, fanning her hair. Even the early morning dew falls felt vivid and alive on her skin. But as time passed, the sorrow followed her. A quiet, everlasting presence of sorrow. It was nothing dramatic; no wailing or gnashing of teeth. Just as sadness that their whole world had been torn asunder. She did not think it would ever go away.

It must have been a month after Varys came for Aegon that Eddard Stark showed up at Starfall. She was up on the battlements when he arrived and watched as the tiny black speck of his horse drew closer to the castle. She looked down between the merlons as he crossed the drawbridge and passed beneath the portcullis before going down to greet him.

He was waiting for her in the Great Hall. Dawn, their ancestral longsword had been placed on a trestle table normally used at meal times. Looking from the sword, to Stark and back again, she remembered the boy she danced with at Harrenhal. There was none of that left in him now. The war had aged him. His expression hang dog and thin. Grey eyes, like his sisters, now shadowed with pain and grief. Experiences worn on his sleeve for all to see.

"Lord Stark," she said, greeting him with clipped tones. "You appear to have my brother's sword."

He turned that doleful expression on her. "My Lady, I-" he began, then the words seemed to choke him. He stammered, drew a deep breath and started again. "My Lady, your brother fell in battle; at the Tower of Joy. I – I'm sorry."

She almost expected it, but still the news came like a kick in the gut. But she would not grieve in front of his enemy. Instead, she picked up the sword in her bare hands and kissed the blade.

"He was a good man," she said, tremulously. "He fought on the wrong side, but he was a good man."

"He was, My Lady," agreed Eddard. "Many good men died fighting in these wars. It's the nature of the beast."

She couldn't argue with that. The most painful thing was that there would be more wars, sooner or later. More good people would die. More wives, mothers and sisters would be left to grieve.

"Did you find her?" she asked, looking back up at Lord Stark. "Lyanna, I mean."

His expression closed, almost as though she had struck him. "Yes," he replied. "Dying, at first. Now dead."

Ashara felt no pleasure. Only a deepening of the sadness that already existed in her. Putting Dawn back down on the table, she crossed the room to him and placed one hand on his arm. When he met her gaze, she saw the tears standing in his eyes. Not falling. Just standing there.

"I was no great friend to your sister, after what she did to Elia and the realm," she said. "But news of her death saddens me. I am sorry for all your losses, Lord Stark. For your father, and Brandon too."

He trembled. She could feel it under the sleeve of his surcoat. "And I for yours, My Lady."

"So, what of Lyanna's child?" she asked. His eyes widened in alarm, shocked that she should know. But Ashara only smiled bitterly. "That's why my brother was guarding her and not on the Trident with his Prince, Lord Stark. We're not idiots. So, a boy or a girl?"

"A boy," he replied, his voice barely a murmur. "He lives and I've named him Jon."

Another Targaryen Prince. But Aegon's claim would come before Lyanna's offering and she wasn't about to divulge the Prince's survival to a Stark rebel. Not even one that had a cuckoo in his own nest, now.

Ashara nodded. "Tell everyone you had an affair with a tavern girl and he was the result. You might just get away with it if he looks like her."

"That's the plan," Lord Stark replied. "Everything is arranged already." They lapsed into silence, each harbouring their own silent grief. Stark was about to walk away, when he suddenly stopped himself and faced her once more. "If I had been in King's Landing, those babes would never have been put to the sword."

She met his gaze and knew he was telling the truth. A trust she conveyed with a pained smile.

"I know," she said. "Before you leave, do you know what happened to Ser Barristan Selmy?"

His brow furrowed as he waked back over to her. "He survived the battle but was taken prisoner. I left Harrenhal just as he was being brought in."

Her heart lifted at the news of his survival, racing and beating against her ribs. "Was he injured?"

He hesitated, only supplying more information at her shrill demand.

"Yes, injured," he replied. "But Lord Bolton was pushing for his execution, my lady. As far as I know, he will be beheaded at Harrenhal. Given how much time has passed, it's probably already been done."

 _Of course_ , she thought to herself, _how could I have been so damnably stupid?_ He fought against the King; he had been captured as a traitor. Despite the pain in her heart, she managed a ghost of a smile as she waved Ned Stark off. Really, she should have taken Arthur's sword and shoved it through his grim, northern heart.

Alone again, she returned to her empty chambers with only the ghosts of her friends for company. Arthur; Elia, Rhaegar, the children; Ser Barristan. Even Brandon the Dishonourable and his morally questionable sister. He and Lyanna were not bad people. Just people whose personality flaws were different to her own. Now that they were all dead she could no longer continue to hold that against them. They all played the game and now they had all gone back into the same box; pieces of the same board, all making their own unique moves towards the hungry graves.

Dawn was a beautiful sword. Light and deadly. She'd heard the legends of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer just like every other child in this accursed continent. But she still refused to believe any weapon could outshine their very own Dawn. Just as no man could outwit Ser Arthur Dayne, her invincible brother. His death did not feel real. She could not process it. Her mind no longer registered grief as a unique emotion. It simply formed part of her being.

She did not think of where she was going; her feet carried her to the castle ramparts of their own volition. On her way there she toyed with a silk handkerchief of pale pink. There was a strip missing, frayed and loose now. Almost two years ago, she had cut off a piece and given it to Ser Barristan to tie around his wrist before facing Rhaegar in the lists at Harrenhal. She used what was left to dab the tears that spilled down her face.

Outside, the sun was setting over the Red Mountains of Dorne. They stood stark against the purple sky. A warm breeze plucked at her face, fanning her hair in the way she loved so much. Still her tears fell as she gazed down into the rushing waters of the Torrentine River. She slipped the handkerchief down her bodice, close to her heart. Then she removed her slippers, so her feet were bare against the warm sandstone as she climbed up onto the merlons. When she stood up high and turned up her face, she noticed the first stars winking back down at her.

They say Starfall was built when the first Dayne followed a shooting star. But the last star fell a long time ago. The last time she saw Ser Barristan was just as he rode off to war. She had clasped his hand as they parted forever; like the ghost of a lover's dance step they moved around each other and whispered their farewells. She mimicked the move again, as she stepped off the merlon. Turning lithely and supple as she spread out her arms and fell, the air rushing up and fanning her hair. She did not cry out, not even when she hit the Torrentine. She let the rushing swells take her, sweeping her body outwards into the wide Summer Sea as her last breath burned her pale chest.

* * *

Ser Barristan was back on duty by the time the messenger arrived. Back in King's Landing, waiting out the rest of his time until Ashara was found and brought to a place of safety. The city was still scarred from the sacking. The castle still half in ruins. But together, they stood a chance of building something.

King Robert passed him by as he went to meet the messenger from Dorne. Their eyes met briefly, a knowing look passing between them. He was half surprised that there was no animosity there, given what happened to his beloved Lyanna. Robert had been mad with grief since Lord Stark returned, en route to the north to bury his sister. Now, it was his turn and all he could do was wait by the side lines once more.

"Well, what news?" asked Robert.

The messenger was wringing his cap in his hands as he knelt before the king.

"Lady Ashara Dayne was seen by witnesses falling from the top tower of her family Castle, Your Grace," he said. "They say she hit the water, but her body has yet to be recovered."

Although he heard clear enough, Ser Barristan did not flinch. Not even when the King instinctively glanced over at him, as though making sure he was not falling apart. He clenched his jaw, kept his emotions in check. Silent and stoic he held his poise. But inside, it felt as though a fundamental part of his heart had ceased to function.

His gauntleted hands tightened around the handle of the sword he knew he would be carrying until he drew his last breath. When that last breath came, he knew now it would probably be because another sword had been plunged through his heart. All the same, his eyes misted over as it all slowly sank in. She was gone. The beautiful dancing girl, the one with the haunting lilac eyes. She was gone forever.

Around his wrist he wore a strip of pale pink silk. It was dirty now. Stained by war and wear. But when night fell, he pressed it to his lips and remembered the way she looked as she tied her favour to wrist. He recalled the look in her eyes as Rhaegar knocked him into the dirt. Now he had been knocked into the dirt again and there was no left to pick him up.

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
